


The world is on fire, but baby, it's so good...

by Prince_Charmont



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Skins (UK), Skins (US)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Body Language, Cigarettes, Crossover, Depression, Drugs, F/M, Flirting, Inner Dialogue, Jace Herondale/Effy Stonem - Freeform, Jace Lightwood/Effy Stonem - Freeform, Jace Morgenstern/Effy Stonem - Freeform, Jace Wayland/Effy Stonem - Freeform, Jace/Effy, Jace/Effy Stonem, Kink, Kinky, Male POV, Marijuana, POV, Partying, Possible lemons, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Power Struggle, Sexual Tension, Teens, Twoshot, Underage - Freeform, drug usage, meeting your twin, not coping well, overly descriptive lol, personal issues, skins crossover, tmi crossover, tmi/skins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_Charmont/pseuds/Prince_Charmont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shit night, eh?" </p><p>As she gives me a sidelong smirk, her heavy-lidded dark brown eyes bore into mine with a penetrating emptiness. Few things can shake me up, but the sharp winter wind and those unnervingly hollow eyes cause me to shudder almost imperceptibly. </p><p>I scowl at her for a split second, hoping the golden fire of my eyes burns her, before I breathe out forcefully in reply.</p><p>--</p><p>Crossover in which Jace Wayland of 'The Mortal Instruments' book series & Effy Stonem of the British TV show 'Skins' meet each other for the first time outside of Pandemonium after having terrible weeks. In their similar self-destructive tendencies and inability to properly handle their internal turmoil, a night of premeditated chaos and devastation ensues. </p><p>Though this is a crossover fic between TMI & Skins, I'm having it be set after Tony's injury in Skins and after Jace finds out Valentine is the man that raised him but still thinks that he's his biological son in TMI.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The world is on fire, but baby, it's so good...

**Premise :** Crossover in which _'Jace Wayland_ ' of _' The Mortal Instruments'_ book series & ' _Effy Stonem'_ of the British TV show ' _Skins_ ' meet outside of Pandemonium. In their similar self-destructive tendencies and inability to properly handle their internal turmoil, a night of premeditated chaos and devastation ensues. 

 **A/N :** Was gonna be a _oneshot_ , (not sure if _lemon_ or not, still unsure, will see in the next, and final, chapter), but I got tired  & it's late. I'm not good at writing more than like 5k words at a time, and this is the most I've written in a bit, so I'm pleased of having written anything at all, regardless of length. This is also the first time I've ever written a crossover fic, so yeah, interesting. Two of my fave characters, tho, & I feel they're pretty alike, so I wondered what'd happen if they ever met. This is my take ^.^

 **Setting :** Though this is a **_crossover_** fic between TMI  & Skins, I'm having it be set after  **[[SPOILERS:** Tony's injury and after Jace finds out Valentine is the man that raised him but still thinks that he's his biological son. **]]**

* * *

I fling Pandemonium's back door open so violently it almost breaks the rusting hinges. I stomp to the curb and sit down hard enough that make my ass would be sore for days were I not Jace fucking _Morgenstern_. My face twitches as I recall that fact. I feel a groan of frustration mixed with utter despair attempt to leave my throat, but my heart's hurting so much it's making my chest tighten enough to stifle my airflow. It stings to breathe, but my wrath causes my breathing to be shallow enough for it not to matter that much.

"Shit night, eh?"

For the first time, I notice a mundie girl (she can't be more than 15) sitting on the curb next to me. A small pipe filled with Peter Parker's 'girlfriend' is in one hand, a solid metal lighter in the other. The pipe is masterfully crafted, making me wonder if she has glassblower friends since she doesn't look like the type of girl who'd pay more than the minimum price for anything. It's a thinner pipe than average with a nice opaque opal color flecked with gilt and decorative ridges and flourishes adorning its surface. I like the slight upward curvature in the handle since it reminds me of the pipes Hodge smokes from. Her lighter is equally ornate and once again, this baffles me since her deliberately edgy and disheveled appearance would suggest that this girl would be more into 'punk' or 'grunge' aesthetics.

As she gives me a sidelong smirk, her heavy-lidded dark brown eyes bore into mine with a penetrating emptiness. Few things can shake me up, but the fact I had managed to completely ignore my surroundings for the first time, the sharp winter wind, and those unnervingly hollow eyes causes me to shudder almost imperceptibly. Luckily, it seems she doesn't notice (I hate looking weak or rattled) but I suppose she could just be holding her cards close. This thought puts me further on guard, despite eliciting a twinge of respect and admiration, but the rest of my emotional state is weighing on me too heavily on me to continue my speculation.

I scowl at her for a split second, hoping the golden fire of my eyes burns her before breathing out forcefully. Her husky grunt of a laugh startles me with its fierce yet gentle sapience. I instantly feel an undesired kinship from her, as the wave of _'yeah, I know the feeling all too well,'_  rushes from her body and into mine. While these foreign (and as a result, completely off-putting) sensations of intimacy, vulnerability, and closeness begin to form, the wild-haired girl adds a few more monosyllabic words to the one-sided exchange.

"Want some?"

She's offering me the freshly packed bowl of strong smelling skunk and silver-plated lighter. I squint at it in deliberation. My mind races over the events of late, the pros and cons of accepting, and whether or not I'm supposed to be somewhere anytime soon. In the end, I decide I straight up don't give a fuck about any of it and lackadaisically suck in as much smoke as I can.

"Easy there, tiger," says my mystery girl in a low, worn _(sensual? or am I mad?)_ voice as she reclaims her implements of 'alternative-medicine.' "It's some serious shit, and you don't strike me a habitual law-breaker." 

She smirks again, not looking at me, and my blood begins to boil as I take offence at what she's just implied. My slightly OCD brain notes that she's only said seven words total to me tonight and two of them happen to be 'shit.'

"What makes you think that?" I'm trying to keep my façade of aloof nonchalance firmly erected, but she got me right in the sweet spot. _She's good. I can't tell if I like that or not._

I watch her procure a slender deep red box from her dark grey parka's left pocket in amazement. I never would have guessed that that box would fit in there. She takes her time carefully replacing her pipe and lighter in a soft looking lining with indents the exact shape and size of her tools. _Custom made carrier even. Damn._ I wonder briefly if she's a hooker. I mean, why else would she look like that, yet have such nice things? A sudden wave of guilt surges through me. One should never assume someone is a sex worker. Just seems rude.

The dark-haired punker simply smirks her wickedly enticing smirk and stands, holding her hand out in front of her. I squint at it suspiciously, my hands still firmly balled in my pockets as I hunch over, before glancing back up at her face. It seems mostly impassive, but now I could swear her eyes are twinkling mischievously in their hollow depths in a way that I've only ever heard described to be in my eyes. The fact that she reminds me so much of myself, the fact that I've never been with anyone remotely like myself, (preferring the insecure submissive types that fawn over me when I pass by them), and the fact that I wouldn't feel like I'm the one in control if I take her hand, all give me pause. When she parts her rosy lips ever so slightly, though, two pangs go off in me simultaneously, and I don't hesitate to internally leap to my feet. Just to let her know that the night will not be wholly on her terms, I let my fingers slide tauntingly against hers as I straighten up slowly, avoiding our palms touching. I can see her raise her brow, the corners of her lips still curled on one side as if to say, _'Ah, so that's how it's gonna be. Just you wait.'_

As I tower over her (she's just a bit taller than… my _sister_ … I quickly push the redhead from my mind), I inch purposefully toward her so that the intentionally-ripped up t-shirt that's draping over the half-cami tank squeezing her chest is almost touching the front of my worn leather jacket. The nameless girl breathes hot words on my neck.

"Do you want to?" _'...go somewhere,'_ I neurotically finish her sentence in my head.

I resist the urge to grab her by the hips and thrust into her. My ambivalence toward her is killing me. The streetlights in the distance are swirling a bit and every hair on my body feels like it's standing on edge as the material of my clothing rubs against my extra sensitive skin. I'm definitely not sober at this point. I'm not sure if her body heat is exacerbating the sensitivity, but I wouldn't wager against it.

I trail my hand up my jacket front and my narcissistic temptation of a brunette turns her chin up, indicating a threatening defensiveness. I suppress a smirk of my own. Just what I was hoping for. I reach painfully slowly under my thick lapel, into the 'secret' pocket and pull out a fag and lighter of my own. I feel her body relax and her aura reverts to its magnetic indifference. When the stream of smoke leaves my lips, I watch her seductively suck it in, her mouth in that O-shape that makes me flex my lower muscles. _**Fuck**... This **girl**..._

I'm looking down at her fishnet stockings, also ripped, her black mini-skirt and matching combat boots. Her nails are short and the sable polish is chipped. She has more thin bands and cords wrapped around her wrists and neck than I would have thought humanly possible; and almost as many earrings on each ear. She has an industrial bar on the left and all kinds of other piercings I couldn't even tell you the name of. The only makeup I can tell she's wearing is smudged black and maybe some grey around her eyes. I'm unsure if she made it messy like that on purpose or if she's already had a crazy night, despite it not being much after midnight. The same goes for her damaged brown hair, which is sticking up in strange places and even looks like there are pieces of glitter or other things in it. If I had to describe this girl to someone, the first thing I'd say is that when it comes to her appearance, she seems to give less fucks than I do about being unapologetically self-obsessed. It unnerves me to see this quality in another person, but at the same time, I find it attractive as all hell. _Must have something to do with fancying myself as much I do._ I snigger mentally with chagrined amusement.

As the slender vixen slips her soft pale hand into my rough bronzed one, I don't pull away. A quote from one of my favourite mundane authors echoes in my brain.  
  


_// For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, //_  
_// And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. //_  
  


_**'Don't.'**_ I'm telling myself. _'Don't do anything stupid.'_ Contrary to popular belief, I say this to myself quite a bit, I'm just not very good at listening to instruction, even from myself.

I want to ask her where we're going as she leads me further from the club, but I pretend my lips are too busy cradling the cigarette between them. Like my jeans, just having something rub against them right now feels unbelievable. She makes no effort to break the silence, nor look back at me as her hand guides mine across the disconcertingly still walkways and streets. She knows I won't lose interest in her, even if she doesn't endeavour to continuously establish eye contact. _Where else would I go tonight, anyway?_ _What else do I have to do?_ Right now, sobriety, even replete with violence, is much less preferred to the calm that's followed the, admittedly quite powerful, green drug of hers.

Strangely, shagging this broken beauty isn't at the forefront of my mind. Sure, my eyes are scanning her from top to bottom, taking as much of her form in as I can, but there's something _(dare I admit?)_ even more captivating than her looks… The confidence that only comes from a devastatingly callous apathy... The devil-may-care attitude proclaiming the inner cynicism and scepticism that arises from true nihilism... The perceived thirst for danger and disregard for personal safety… The sexual nature of her being… The fact that she's… _just like **me**_ …

 _I **need** to know more. I need to know her. Who she is, why she is the way she is, what she does everyday, why she does the things she does. _ It's as if by getting these answers from her, I can finally understand myself better. The curiosity of where she's taking me, of what we might do, as well as the desire to turn the tables on her once we get to our destination is also spurring me on. Though my primary motivations for continuing the evening are to have my questions answered, I'm not gonna lie… a part of me considers any night in which I've not bedded the fittest bird I've see that day a failure. And she definitely qualifies as that girl. _Not my usual type, but it's always good to make exceptions from time to time, right? Keeps things interesting. Besides… this **girl** … Sodding hell…_

She's rapping on the door of someone's flat. The "3" in 63 is slightly askew, but the complex doesn't look terribly suspect. Not that I'd even care at this point. I could handle anything that came at us. Granted, I'll be surrounded by mundanes in all likelihood, so I'll have to be very careful if I get into a row with any of them, lest I almost kill one.

My constant vigilance as a Shadowhunter is never impaired, even when intoxicated, though, I suppose, recalling earlier, my emotions seem to be able to. That's why I go to such great lengths to insure they're eradicated. None of this _'conceal, don't feel, don't let it show,'_ rubbish. I'm talking straight up emotional _annihilation_. Feelings make you weak and a Shadowhunter can _never_ afford to be weak. I'm analysing the situation in full like usual, taking in my surroundings, deducing what could be waiting inside, trying to suss out what's in store for us, but my curiosity wanes as I catch a glimpse of the flat through the crack in the door as it's opened just a bit, security chain still in place.

"Oh. Alright, _Eff_?" A large chav, just a bit taller than me (I hate that), greets the girl informally. This is the first time I hear her name, but I know it's an intimate nickname and thus won't call her that. The man unlocks the door and widens it just enough for us both to sidle through the doorway. He eyes me up and down, but doesn't have as much suspicion in his gaze as I feel like he should. I'm a stranger after all.

"Cheers, mate." The girl referred to as 'Eff' slinks into the living room, if it could be called that, and I follow her closely. It's dim, only soft orangey lights are illuminating the kitchen that's separated from the room we're in by a half-wall island thing. The flat's thick with smoke and remarkably quiet. There's some relaxed Mundie music that I recall Simon referring to as "trip-hop" playing softly and tons of teenagers laying on various couches, lounges, beanbag chairs, pillows, settees, and more. They all look half asleep and I'm in doubt as to whether or not spliff is all they've been smoking tonight. A quick glance around the room answers my question. I'm not all that familiar with mundane recreational drugs, but I can tell that a larger variety than is normally present at a gathering is here. _She's brought me to a drug den, hasn't she? Well, this is certainly not what I was expecting._ I'm contemplating taking off.

When we're next to the kitchen island counter, however, she turns to me, grabbing both my hands and pulling me close. Her mesmerisingly desolate eyes look up at mine and I feel like something is melting inside of me like wax, causing my feet to stick to the floor. I catch a whiff of her send and it drives out all other thoughts and feelings like a snowplough. The heat is back and so is the sensitivity, but I know it's not the marijuana this time.

"I want to show you something."

Her voice is so rough you think it'd hurt your ears, but somehow it has the opposite effect and glides smoothly over you.

"Should I feel special?"

I grin at her, half teasing her, half wanting to know if she feels the strange and unique connection I feel for her. _Is she doing what she always does with everyone she meets, or is it different this time?_

"Yes," she says after a long pause.

I glance down at something silver flashing on top of her cleavage. One of her necklaces has such a long chain, the pendant on it had been obscured by the top of her shirt before now. It says, 'Effy,' on it. _Ah. So that's my temptress's name. Effy. I wonder what it's short for. At least I've got one thing on her._

"You should."

Effy reaches up a thin hand. I notice lines that looks like the scars Shadowhunters have, but longer and thicker all along the inside of her forearm. She hesitantly delves her fingers into the golden curls above my ear and rakes the side of my scalp with her nails. I grit my teeth as my eyelids drop involuntarily and I feel a moan threaten to erupt from my lips.

 _'Get it together, Wayland.'_ I berate myself in my mind and instantaneously, the knifelike stabbing in my gut occurs once again as I remember my real surname. In that exact moment I decide to get so pissed that I can't even remember who I am. That's the last thing I want to think about right now anyway.

Effy drags her bitten nails down my cheek (I like that she's not afraid to be rough) and drops her hand to where my black leather lapels meet. She grabs them tightly and yanks me toward her before turning, letting me go, and sauntering off, that gesture obviously indicating that she wants me to follow her. Her dominance causes my male ego to become inflamed _(I'm the man. I'm the one who is supposed to be in control. She is the one who's supposed to cater to my every whim)._ And yet, bizarrely enough, it turns me on more than I've ever been before. Well, almost. ' _Cl_ -' I almost let myself think of her, but immediately stop her freckled face from entering my mind. _**No**. Not **tonight**. Just give me **one** night free from my torment. Just give me **one** night... to forget…_

When we've walked down a surprisingly long corridor in almost total darkness, my ivory-skinned siren turns again to look at me, placing her back against the furthest door at the end, her knee bent as she rests a boot on the cheaply painted wood. _Let's see what box of horrors my little Pandora has in store for me. Don't you **dare** waste my time, mundane._ Her miniskirt rides up and I can see without looking that it would only have to raise a touch farther for the money shot. I appreciate the fact that I always go commando for the umpteenth time. The extra room makes moments like this far more pleasant.

I lean over her, resting my palms against the door, placing my legs between hers. Our foreheads are practically touching and we've suddenly ceased needing to blink as we lock eyes. What angry fire I have within me is met only with an ice that shocks me like plunging into a frost-kissed pond. Her fingers move nimbly as they work their way under both my fitted jacket and shirt and I use all of my willpower to not start at her touch. She's as cold as her eyes now, which doesn't surprise me, as the corridor doesn't seem to be heated. The hot breath passing between our mouths is visible even in the darkness. As her hands slide over my pronounced hip muscles and snake up my muscular stomach and chest, tracing my happy trail, my jaw tightens with effort. I notice her notice the effect she's having on me with displeasure. _Two can play this game._

I move my right hand from beside her head and cup the base of her skull, thrusting my fingers into her hair, but supporting the weight of her head. I tilt her head slightly, moving mine in the opposite direction and move in close as I let my other hand fall to her exposed hip and dip my fingers beneath the top of her skirt, moving inward. I can feel her breath quicken and her heart rate increase with my heightened hearing and am pleased to be back in control. I'm looking at her lips as I close in on them. I stop just shy of brushing them. A fraction of a millimetre would close the gap, but I don't. It seems Effy has no problem making the first move, but I'm increasingly vexed and aroused by the fact that she doesn't give in completely. Instead, she brushes my lips with hers, her mouth slightly ajar in that, _'I'm reminding you what I can do with my mouth'_ kind of way and I'm focusing all my attention on not grinding into her. I hope I'm succeeding. I can't even tell at this point. Her hands wrap around my sides and grab the back of my hips, abruptly pulling my pelvis to hers and bites my lower lip, letting it slide slowly back out from between her teeth. My hands slam against the door again and, despite my fiercest efforts, a low throaty grunt escapes.

 _ **Fuck**. She just won._ At least now I don't have to play hard to get. She pushes me away with a wicked smile fully plastered across her face whilst I glare with ire and horniness down at her. She drops her heel, turns to face the door. As she's turning the doorknob and I'm moving in to press my erection against her skirt, my imaginings of throwing her down and fucking her senseless when we get inside the room get pushed from my mind so suddenly, that I almost feel like I experienced vertigo for a second. Behind the door was nothing I could have imagined. _By the **Angel** … What have I gotten myself into…?_


End file.
